


The Challenge and the Chase

by abstractconcept



Category: White Collar
Genre: Humor, M/M, pre-slash. flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-18
Updated: 2009-11-18
Packaged: 2017-10-03 06:28:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abstractconcept/pseuds/abstractconcept
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neal needs to know that prison isn't a place where you're forgotten. Peter doesn't want to admit he enjoys the chase as much as Neal does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Challenge and the Chase

**Author's Note:**

> Word Count: 2,000+  
> Beta: The Fabulous [info]amazonziti  
> Notes: I needed to try it, that's all. I needed to dip my toes into this fandom. Based on the first episode.

Peter was used to getting birthday cards from Neal. What he wasn’t used to was showing up to find Neal _and_ his birthday card, sitting there in the living room like they owned the place.

Neal was giving Peter one of those ‘shy’ looks, clutching the card against his dark shirt like he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t get thrown out. “Happy birthday,” Neal murmured.

Peter wasn’t going to ask. He wasn’t going to ask, because he didn’t want to know. And Neal liked to be helpful; if Peter asked, Neal would tell him. So he wasn’t going to ask—except he couldn’t help himself. He sank down on the couch next to Neal, sighing in resignation.

There was a stack of cards on the table; all the old birthday cards Neal had sent over the years. Peter kept them with his taxes and other financial documents in a little safe at the back of his closet, but that would have been no challenge to Neal. Peter wanted to be annoyed about that—hell, he _was _kind of annoyed—but mostly he just felt a wry amusement. That damn kid. What _wouldn’t _he get into?

“What’s with the birthday cards?” He tried to make it sound casual. Hell, it was casual; it wasn’t like he cared or anything. It was just weird, just one of those weird, interesting things Neal did, and Peter was curious, that was all. It was just weird and kind of embarrassing. Peter only kept the damn things in case they needed, like, handwriting evidence in a future case or something. It wasn’t anything sentimental.

Neal smiled brightly. “Oh, you mean these birthday cards? The ones I sent over the last four years?”

“Yeah, those birthday cards.”

Neal shifted. Maybe it was a shrug, maybe an indication of slight discomfort. All Peter knew was he’d prefer it if Neal didn’t get all limber and lithe and make his shirt slide across his shoulders like that. Peter sure as hell couldn’t do that, and Neal shouldn’t be able to, either.

“What’s with the birthday cards?” Peter repeated. His voice sounded harsh and he tried to cover it up by leaning away, looking uninterested. “Damn freakish thing to do.”

And now Neal was hurt, you could tell by his face, by his eyes. He looked wounded. He also looked innocent as hell, playing up those Mediterranean blue eyes by blinking them ingenuously. “Are you angry? I guess I shouldn’t have broken into your safe. You’re not going to put me back in, are you?” _Don’t throw me in the briar patch, Brer Fox. Anything but the briar patch._ Neal always had an angle.

Even so, Peter hadn’t developed defences against Neal’s oh-so-sad, you-don’t-like-me-anymore expression.

He tried to get things back on course. “Don’t be stupid. Unless you put anthrax in one of the cards, I’m not going to send you back for this. But the next time you break into my house or go through my stuff, I _will _make you sorry. Now. What’s with the birthday cards?” he said yet again, this time his tone tired, not nasty at all.

Neal must have felt comfortable, because he relaxed beside Peter on the couch, crossing his legs at the ankle. But not completely comfortable, because he was still tightly clutching that new card. “Well, you know. I was just keeping my hand in. You had other criminals to catch, other places to be.”

“Plenty of them,” Peter agreed. There was a whole cesspool of crime out there, and a thousand agents working around the clock would make no difference.

“So you had other things on your mind.”

Peter looked up. “Other things than what?”

Neal smiled that weird tentative smile he used when he wasn’t working it, wasn’t being faux-charming, wasn’t screwing you over. “Other things than me.”

“Oh, yeah. Right. I nearly had other things on my mind. With the Dutchman, and let’s not forget my lovely wife. Important things.”

“So it would be understandable if you got distracted sometimes. Especially now that I’m not a criminal anymore, and you don’t have to chase me.”

“For the most part,” Peter agreed, “though that stunt you pulled today–”

“Okay, so you don’t have to chase me very _often._. And you didn’t have to chase me at all while I was in prison.” Neal plucked a card off the coffee table; the first card, all affable and teasing and smelling of something—of man—of old spice or maybe lime or maybe just musk. Something masculine, anyway. Something masculine, something barely there, something kind of pleasant.

Neal lifted it to his nose and inhaled deeply. “Did you know smell is the sense most directly linked to memory?”

Peter nodded.

“It smells like me. I think. It smells like things I wear. The person I was.”

Neal might have been smart as a whip, but he was also one strange cookie. “Yeah, okay,” Peter said, tired. “Whatever you say.”

Only today Neal had tested the limits again, seen how far he could go without Peter right behind him.

Peter had caught him at the airport, so pissed that he nearly cuffed him right there in front of everybody. Nearly cuffed him and maybe dragged him into a backroom for a few moments of serious discussion. Damn Neal, running off after that damn girl._ Can’t you see what a good thing you have? _Peter had asked. _Can’t you see what a good thing we have?_

Neal hadn’t seemed to mind. In some strange way, he had almost seemed delighted to be caught.

Neal leaned back, feet up on the table. Elizabeth would have a fit about that if she caught Peter doing it, but the truth was, Elizabeth pretty much granted Neal carte blanche to do as he wished.

“It’s hard to keep your attention,” Neal remarked.

“I’ve had a long day. I’m tired.”

Neal turned, wriggled until he was facing Peter on the couch. “I don’t mean that. I mean that I got thrown in prison, and you had other priorities. You had other people to catch.”

Peter raised his eyebrows.

Neal studied his fingernails. “I didn’t want you to forget about me,” he admitted.

“Yeah?”

“You weren’t going to forget, not with the cards. They smelled of me,” Neal pointed out gently.

Peter laughed. “Is that what you were after?” he said. “You got a round-about way of doing things.”

“What?” Now Neal looked intense again, as only Neal could, leaning too close, his vivid blue eyes like lasers boring into Peter’s soul.

Peter forced himself to look away. “There are easier ways of getting your points across,” he said. “Rather than colognes and coy little birthday cards. Anyway, you ought to focus on bigger things. Like staying out of trouble, shit like that.”

“Maybe,” Neal agreed seriously. Peter should have known then that something was going on; Neal was never that sober unless he was planning something distinctly wicked.

Abruptly Peter stood. When Neal got that look in his eye, it was better to cut him off at the pass. Before Neal could make a move, Peter grabbed him by the arm. “Come on.”

“What? Why?”

“You’re leaving,” he said, steering Neal to the door, ignoring his slender perfection, his dark turtleneck drawing out the blue of his eyes. “Elizabeth will be back from her bookclub soon. And you’ll be gone. Got it?”

“Got it,” Neal agreed firmly. He stood on the doorstep, suddenly looking impish. It was a cold, grey evening, and Neal had his hands in his pockets. He smiled cherubically, cheeks pink from the cold as the breeze coaxed his curls into fluttering around his face.

_Thousand dollar suit and an angel’s face, _Peter thought ruefully. No wonder he got away with so much crap.

“And you won’t forget me?” Neal pressed.

“Depends on how long I can get rid of you.”

Neal grinned. “You’d miss me if I went,” he guessed.

“Sure. Right.”

“But you wouldn’t forget me.”

Peter smiled wryly. “No, I wouldn’t forget you. You were a real pain in my ass, and still are. I wouldn’t forget that. Besides, you were the best chase I ever had.” It just sort of slipped out. “Hey, that sounded weird. Forget that bit, okay?”

But Neal was beaming, practically glowing he was so damned happy, so oddly content. That Neal. Who the hell knew what was going on inside that head?

“Don’t worry, I understand,” Neal assured him. “I get it.”

“Well . . . good.”

Then, with a what-the-everloving-fuck exploding in Peter’s mind, Neal leaned forward and kissed him, hard, right on the lips, right in front of the neighbors.

“What the f—”

“You won’t forget me,” Neal said with a laugh, dancing lightly out of arm’s reach. “I’m still the most interesting. So you won’t ever forget me.”

“I might not forgive you, either,” Peter grunted, his face hot.

Neal was exuberant; he did a little spin, right there in the middle of the street. “You're not angry. I can tell when you're angry. And anyway, at least I know you never forgot me.”

“I should have tried harder.”

“Too late now.” Neal whirled, strolling away as though he hadn’t a care in the world. “Hey, detective?”

“What now?”

“It’s a better way of getting my point across, isn’t it? Better than cologne and birthday cards?”

Peter swore as Neal turned the corner. He’d walked right into that little trap.

“I’m still the best chase,” Neal added over his shoulder. “And an even better catch, if you’d care to try that sometime.”

Peter groaned. His little con had a crush on him. Just wait until Elizabeth found out. She already thought of Neal as a rival for her time and attention. Eh, scratch that. Elizabeth was probably going to think this was hilarious. As long as she didn’t think the crush was mutual, anyway.

“And Peter? See you tomorrow.”

Peter shook his head, exasperation and fondness all fighting in a fluttery ball in his chest. “Yeah. Probably,” he agreed.

“With Italian roast,” came Neal’s amused voice from the darkness.

“Better than roses,” Peter had to admit.

“Maybe I’ll spring for both,” Neal said, and then he was gone.

Peter stood there several moments, shaking his head, too surprised to know what to do next. Finally he decided to go back inside, where he wouldn’t be tempted to track that slender dark shadow, where he could sit on the couch and maybe even have a drink.

There was an expensive bottle of scotch on the coffee table. The cheeky little bastard. How had he managed to plant that while Peter was manhandling him out of the house? The card Neal had brought was standing next to it.

After contemplating the bottle a long, long moment, he opened it and poured himself a glass. He didn’t plan on sharing it, or trying to make sense out of it or reading anything into it. It was a bottle, the scotch tasted good. Sometimes that was enough.

He finally picked up the card, thumbed it open. There was a man fishing printed on the outside of the card. The inside was blank except for where Neal had written in it, _“To tomorrow, the chase, and catching the big one.”_

Peter nearly spat his drink all over the place. That arrogant little twerp! Thought a lot of himself, didn’t he? Peter had to laugh.

And maybe Neal would test his limits again tomorrow, who knew? Sometimes he was useful, sometimes he was rebellious. If he got rebellious, ran off, Peter would just have to go after him. And if they were both lucky, Peter would catch him again, bring him back where he belonged.

Hell, he’d already caught the brat three times. Seemed like Neal didn’t think those counted, though. Well, that was Neal all over. He put a lot of work into being a con, and he wouldn’t be satisfied until the collar was as masterful as the crime. He didn’t give up easily, but then, neither did Peter.

And one of these times, Neal Caffrey would stop running. One of these times, Peter would catch him for good.

There were certainly worse ways of ending it. Peter smiled, setting the glass down and drinking straight from the bottle. Until then, he could enjoy the challenge and the chase.


End file.
